“Why you keep fighting these white men?”

He watched a horse and driver. Rubbed his hand over his pate. Weary now of this northern country colored woman. Sighed. “It makes me the money. And it’s what they want.”

“What you want too.”

He shrugged. She looked at him then, the first time since they started walking. Sizing him, he felt, knowing something of his deceptions, what he was leaving out. She said, “You ever been to North Carolina?”

“Been through.”

“Place called Sweetboro?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Just wondered.” The boy was watching the horses again.

“That your home?”

She was silent. Then turned to him. Stretched out a hand and without waiting for him to take it said, “Been good to meet you.”

He nodded. “Leave it be,” he said. “Don’t mess with it. Whatever it is, it ain’t gonna be what you want or hope. Sit right here and raise up that wild child.” Then took her hand, her hand right then for that moment all of her, and it wasn’t just his idea but her clear beaming through. And he felt she’d taken something from him, he couldn’t say what. The same or worse than sleeping with her.

She said, “I’m not going nowhere. Nowhere to go. Just curious is all. Stupid curious.” She snorted through her nose, contempt at the notion. Then curt and he knew it was all done. “Good to meet you. Watch out yourself.”

“Watch out for that boy.” The child was back on the fence, half through it. She turned toward him. The man called Ben walked away then. He’d missed one of his tent shows. Docked pay. For nothing but to fill some stranger’s vague desire for a touch of something long gone. Nothing to do with him. He held the anger of this inside his chest, wrapped there like a single thread around a ball of threads. Walking away, he saw the daughter watching him from the shadow of the oxen barn, her face not a scowl so much as contempt. Her arms crossed over her breasts, hands holding her upper arms. The same long curly hair as the hair of the little boy, shining like crow feathers. Keeping his course he passed twenty feet away from her, giving her no smile but a glance flicking her away. The girl arched one eyebrow.

She lied. She lied to herself when she first heard about the man at the fair and again when she saw him. Beyond that she didn’t know how long the lies had been occurring. As if a small phial secreted deep within herself had twisted open some long time since, releasing a vapor that ran all through her, tainting her blood and coloring her vision over everything, so everything became a needle-click off-center the way a compass will fault close upon a certain mass of particular stone. But lied to Norman when she declared no interest in going to see the colored strongman and only knew it then, knew also she was going, would go, the next day. This way discovered she’d been lying for a long time. And could not trace it, could not attribute it, could not even offer specific charges against herself, no instances, no examples, no small disguised misdeeds, but rather as an aroma rising off of her so long it had become familiar as if indeed her skin gave it off rather than her mind. Or her soul. She thought it likely it was her soul.